


slow motion, double vision (in rose blush)

by Anonymous



Category: American Housewife (TV)
Genre: (at a previous time), Consensual Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, the boys are YEARNINGGGGGG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29707518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was supposed to be movie night.
Relationships: Cooper Bradford/Oliver Otto
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35
Collections: Anonymous





	slow motion, double vision (in rose blush)

There’d been some pretense of a movie night, because according to Cooper, Oliver’s taste is woefully underdeveloped—that’s how he put it exactly. _Woefully._ Like they’re Jane Austen characters or some shit, falling across fainting couches and lamenting over their marriage prospects. Oliver has said as much.

“Like you’ve ever read a Jane Austen book in your life,” Cooper shoots back, kicking at Oliver’s legs so he can walk through the space between the sofa and the coffee table, big bowl of popcorn in one hand, phone in the other.

“I’ve seen the movie,” Oliver says. “The Keira Knightley one. That’s based on one of the books, isn’t it? Totally counts.”

Cooper settles down on the sofa next to him, one knee drawn up, the popcorn between them as he sucks truffle butter off his fingertips. “Why would you watch that?”

Oliver looks at the paused TV screen, shrugging back further into the cushions. “Taylor didn’t want to read the book so we watched the movie instead. Keira Knightley is hot.”

A snort, and Cooper leans forward for the remote, sweater pulling taut across his shoulders as he does. “So not your type.”

“Oh yeah?” Oliver cocks an eyebrow at him. “What’s my type, then?”

Cooper pauses mid-reach and slides a heavy look Oliver’s way, one corner of his mouth ticking up, caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. Oliver clears his throat, cheeks going hot. “You gonna press play or what?”

It’s actually pretty difficult to be alone like this. Oliver’s hard pressed to find any chunk of time that hasn’t been regimented in some capacity, streamlined for efficiency. Eating, sleeping, studying, working on the app —it’s all methodical. Has to be, or Oliver’s pretty sure his carefully crafted future would fall apart. There were too many choices and decisions, too many what ifs and initiatives that could knock him off track. He gets caught up, gets so intensely focused that it’s a relief to be like this, just Cooper and Oliver, where he doesn’t have to be anything to anyone. He just has to show up.

“Can’t believe you’ve never seen _Lord of the Rings,”_ Cooper says, for the millionth time.

“Uh, sorry some of us had actual lives growing up and didn’t spend it watching wizard movies?”

“I don’t think collecting Pokemon cards and going to _tournaments—”_

“One tournament. _One._ And my dad only took us ‘cause Anna-Kat was into it and Taylor and I got so bored and into such a big fight she took us home after an hour.”

“One Pokemon card tournament is still one Pokemon card tournament too many, Ollie.”

There’s probably a solid point in there somewhere, but Oliver still thinks he’s justified in throwing a handful of popcorn at Cooper’s face.

This is how it always starts.

The first time was nearly identical, except they were at Cooper’s, a little too tipsy on smuggled wine and belly aching laughter, watching some dumb shit in the Bradford’s viewing room. The house-staff wouldn’t have cared about them drinking, but there was something about sneaking booze that made it taste better, made them looser. Laughing so hard Oliver collapsed into Cooper, face burning, mouth carved around a cackle that went so hard and so long it lost all sound except a wheezing gasp. Cooper against him, gripping uselessly at Oliver’s shirt, trying to catch himself from falling right off the edge of the couch. Oliver doesn’t even remember what they were laughing at, except every time they thought it was over, another round of hysterics would start up again, each time an inch more unhinged.

He does remember Cooper’s red face, eyes wet and mouth stained and shoulders shaking—then they were kissing. A weird, punctuated kiss, too short and sudden and awkwardly angled, but the second their lips touched Oliver felt like a cut live wire. There wasn’t much time to think about how weird it was, how they shouldn’t, because then they were doing it again, and again, and again. Oliver remembers thinking he could taste it, the laughter in Cooper’s mouth, sweet and unstoppable and addictive.

“Anyway, it completely reinvented the fantasy genre,” Cooper shrugs, slinging an arm around the back of the couch.

Now it always goes something like this.

A movie night, Cooper preaching the merits of what he claims are ‘absolute classics,’ making artisanal popcorn that mostly ends up uneaten or on the floor, talking over the dialogue, half the plot lost between the folds of vibrant laughter. And they’ll sink further and further into the cushions, and their voices will get lower and lower, and they’ll get closer and closer until only Oliver’s own big, fat, stupid insecurity fits wedged between them.

Like now, about half an hour in, and the width of the space between them has Oliver wondering as he usually does, to the point of vibrating with anxiety, if last time was the Last Time. If Cooper doesn’t want this anymore. If Cooper never really wanted this. And just when he’s nearly grinding his molars into dust and humming with jittery, scattering nerves—Cooper will knock their knees together. Cooper will take Oliver’s hand and brush his thumb across Oliver’s knuckles over and over again. Cooper will lean his head on Oliver’s shoulder. Some shred of a moment, of a move that just tips past the friends-boundary, anchoring them firmly on the other side.

“He dies, doesn’t he?” Oliver flaps a hand at the screen, Elijah Wood looking earnestly at his friend from the gully. He’s seen parts of the movies on TV over the years and knows enough about _Lord of the Rings_ through pop culture osmosis to get the gist. “Right?”

Cooper says, “Maybe you should just _watch_ and find out.”

“But, like, what’s the point, then? Of all this build up or whatever.”

“Shhhh,” Cooper shushes him, eyes on the screen. “Just watch.”

Oliver opens his mouth, about to say there’s no way hobbits are any match for the Dark Riders, when he feels a hand at the back of his neck. Feels fingers tracing slow, soft circles against his nape, slipping down to the collar of Oliver’s t-shirt, then just slightly past. Oliver shivers, goosebumps rushing across his skin as Cooper’s fingers sweep up, up, up into the tangle of hair at the base of Oliver’s skull, pulling just enough to make Oliver’s head fall back with a small sound, eyelids fluttering.

There are lips against his exposed neck, barely there until there are teeth, tongue, tasting the salt off his skin. Oliver should tell him no, should tell him marks are dangerous even if they can be explained away, should tell him something, anything—but he’s too busy melting into the couch, Cooper’s other hand on his leg, searing through Oliver’s sweats. Lips trail upwards, punctuated with an open mouthed kiss to the spot just below Oliver’s ear, making him squirm. He can feel a grin at the hinge of his jaw.

“So easy,” Cooper murmurs, and Oliver would roll his eyes, except he can’t do anything but think about Cooper’s hand slipping towards his inner thigh.

He turns his head, looking at Cooper, and that pleased expression shifts into something intent, eyes half-lidded. Oliver’s hands—which had until now just been clenching and unclenching uselessly at his sides—move, one coming up to cup the side of Cooper’s face as he presses in for a kiss, the other grabbing at the front of his sweater. The sound Cooper lets escape on a shared breath between them feels like victory.

Whenever they’re making out like this, there’s a point where Oliver’s carefully wound molecules feel like they’re about to be unspooled. A point where the lazy, easy kisses shift suddenly, syrupy heat seeping through his body as traded pecks with soft, sweet sounding smacks turn a little too wet, a little too sloppy. Where nothing is close enough, where his hazy head can only focus on the shape of Cooper’s mouth, the filthy slide of his tongue.

Oliver reaches across and slides a hand under Cooper’s thigh, lifting until Cooper’s on him, straddling Oliver’s lap. He looks up at parted lips, Cooper’s throat bobbing with a slow swallow. Oliver loves the weight of him, heavy and real, loves how solid Cooper is. How he lets himself press against Oliver, bracing his hands against the back of the couch, just over Oliver’s shoulders, eyes never breaking away as he rocks forward. Oliver’s hands fly to grip at slim hips, pushing the hem of his t-shirt up just enough to graze against the hot skin underneath, the sharp v-shape leading down past the elastic.

“Like this?” Cooper asks, but it’s not really a question, the low rasp of his voice so close, already moving.

 _Like this_ is simple, with Cooper. It’s easy to want and touch and taste. It's easy to ache, to wish that Cooper would grind down harder, that their clothes would dissolve from friction. That Oliver could feel every stitch of him, could let Cooper under his skin and keep him there. That Oliver could just let himself have what he wants.

With girls it’d been...not less complicated, exactly, but different. Even between knotted feelings and intentions and teenage insecurity, there was a certainty to it all. A feeling of always being in forward motion, each experience building off of the last. Doing this with Cooper feels like going backwards somehow, but he’s never done this before. Not with a guy, and not with someone like Cooper, this clothed give and take that makes Oliver feel like he’s fumbling through someone’s half-dark bedroom for the first time. Unsure how much is too much, unsure how to ask for what he wants. And god, he _wants._

Wants to ask Cooper to touch him, to take him, to suck him. Wants to pin Cooper down and taste every inch of him. Wants a closeness so hot and so deep it’ll finally cut through that ache he feels whenever he sees sunlight catch in Cooper’s eyelashes. Or the way Cooper wears a white t-shirt like no one has ever worn a white t-shirt before. Or when he laughs too hard and throws his head back with it.

Even though this half-clothed, desperate friction is hot and Oliver really, really likes it... it’s safe. It happens within this carefully constructed scene they’ve made that’s so separate from reality, from who they are and what they are. Oliver knows it’s dumb—they’ve been hooking up for months now, and Cooper’s seen him shake apart and moan and gasp and beg. Somehow, though, asking for more out loud means there’s no going back. It’s not just to see. It’s not just fooling around, or blowing off steam, even if he’s never thought of it like that.

Oliver spends too much time and energy wishing Cooper would be the one to say something first. Oliver thinks maybe that makes him a bad friend. Oliver thinks maybe Cooper realizes that, too, and that’s why he hasn’t said anything, either. Oliver’s hamster wheel brain has spun itself past the point of exhaustion, and sometimes it just feels good to let his mind go blissfully blank as Cooper grinds against him in long, measured rolls.

“So good,” Cooper hisses as Oliver moves to meet him halfway, pushing up off the couch because it’s not enough. “So fucking good.”

Cooper’s too far above him to kiss if he doesn’t lean down, and he knows it too, because he’s kind of a huge fucking tease. Oliver’s breathing is coming out harder, rougher, licking at his lower lip as his hands push at the hem of Cooper’s sweater, the button-down underneath. It’s tight enough that it stays stretched over Cooper’s chest. Oliver leans in, licking a long, slow stripe up the center, tasting salt and sweat and expensive body wash. Cooper exhales loudly above him, hips stuttering, hand fisting into the hair at the back of Oliver’s head.

When he looks up, all he sees is Cooper’s mouth, shiny, swollen and slack around a hitched breath. Oliver pulls back just enough, reaching a hand up, pad of him thumb pressing against Cooper’s bottom lip. Before he can think better of it, he pushes it in, the slick, molten heat of Cooper’s tongue flickering at the tip. Cooper’s still looking down at him, eyes cut with a hard gleam as he swirls around Oliver’s finger before closing his lips around it and sucking.

Oliver’s jaw swings open, lungs faltering as Cooper keeps moving, keeps sucking, keeps making _sounds._ Shameless from the flush of his cheeks and mussed hair, to the hard line of his cock tenting the front of his cashmere joggers as he arches his back, knees sinking further into the cushions on either side. He pulls off of Oliver’s thumb with a loud, wet pop, grinning as he presses a kiss so sweet it’s almost criminal against the whorls of Oliver’s fingerprint. And Oliver, un-fucking-hinged and drunk on the sight of Cooper so artless and vibrant and wanton, shoves his middle and ring fingers into Cooper’s mouth. Cooper takes them, moaning, and Oliver’s eyes burn, throbbing between his legs.

He’s never asked and Cooper’s never said, but he’s pretty sure Cooper’s done this before, with a guy. Or guys. Anytime Oliver thinks about it, even though he knows it’s stupid, he feels unreasonably jealous of these phantom hookups. They probably knew what they were doing. They probably said whatever they wanted and asked for whatever they wanted, probably moved and touched and fucked with the ease of someone not afraid of themselves.

Cooper catches him by the wrist and pulls off his fingers, flash of pink tongue laving them in lazy circles before he trails down, pressing kisses against his palm. “I fucking love your hands,” he murmurs against Oliver’s pulse and _fuck._ Oliver doesn’t think he’s even breathing, but he doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to breathe, because they’re kissing again. Heavier, the click of too many teeth before it slips into something familiar, Oliver sucking on Cooper’s tongue, letting himself imagine it’s the tip of Cooper’s cock. Oliver moans, hands slipping from his waist down to the curve of his ass, squeezing through the soft fabric, bodies flush as they move in tandem.

It’s pretty hard to get off like this, rutting on the couch still fully clothed. There’s good things about it, things he likes—how long it takes, how much they have to work for it, how desperate it makes Oliver, aching so hard it throbs down to his fingertips with every pump of his heartbeat. How it makes his mind shut down. How it lets him be, even if only for a little while, unself-conscious.

Cooper cups Oliver’s face with both hands before breaking away, panting hot and open mouthed against him, rolling to meet Oliver’s thrusts. He looks down, pushing Oliver’s hair back from his face. “Jesus, you’re so fucking hot.”

Oliver’s skin burns, flushing even though he’s already probably pink all over. He presses his face against Cooper’s chest, easier than looking up at Cooper as he says those things.

“So hot. So good,” Cooper breathes, pulling Oliver’s head back by fisting the hair at the base of his skull. “God, look at you.”

A truly embarrassing whimper escapes deep from Oliver’s chest. He didn’t think he was this close, but Cooper looking down at him, telling him how hot he is, how good he is, how much Cooper likes and wants this, and Oliver —he—

“Fuck, oh god,” Oliver grips at Cooper’s hips, pulling him down harder, faster, rhythmless. “Cooper—”

"Do it," Cooper's voice is so low and so raw it's nearly a growl, right against Oliver’s ear. "I want you to."

He shakes apart, head thrown back with teeth against the hinge of his jaw, biting and sucking, and Oliver doesn’t even care about marks, doesn’t care about anything except the weight against him taking away the weight inside him.

He gulps for air, mind swimming as reality starts to slip back in, the damp feeling in his sweats, the movie still playing in the background. Cooper bites his lip, hips moving in small, contained circles because he’s still hard. He sits back, slipping a hand past his waistband, eyebrows knitting as he touches himself. It’s hot in a way Oliver never really thought watching someone get themselves off could be, but he’s punch drunk with loose warmth still winding through him, and Cooper’s so fucking noisy, so fucking expressive. God, Oliver’s committed the shape of his mouth when he moans to memory, replays it in his head whenever he’s alone in his bed, hand trailing down his own stomach.

Usually they don’t touch when this happens, rolling off and away, but Cooper’s not moving now except for the hand inside his shorts, still sprawled across Oliver’s lap. There’s a sharp tug in Oliver’s gut, nearly painful through the sleepy, drowsy mush of the rest of his body, and there’s no resistance left in him to stop his hand from reaching out.

He only touches Cooper’s wrist, huge dark eyes snapping up to stare at Oliver’s face, eyebrows arched, corners of his mouth just starting to curve. Oliver mirrors that, surprised at himself, bubble of a laugh sitting firmly in his stomach, ready to burst up out of him at any second. Instead, he pulls Cooper’s hand away, biting his lip as he looks down between his legs and slides in past the waistband.

He hears Cooper’s sharp inhale, leaning forward with his hands braced against the back of the couch as Oliver grips. He’s seen Cooper naked, surrounded by other sweaty, loud guys in changing rooms or skinny dipping in the summer, never for long, never alone—it’s so different from having Cooper on top of him, with his hand down Cooper’s pants.

“Ollie,” comes out hoarse, his face red.

Oliver rests his teeth against his bottom lip, still loose limbed and raw from coming—he doesn’t think he’d be able to do this otherwise. He rubs a thumb over the head, feeling Cooper whimper, and when he looks up again Cooper meets his gaze. Some hysterical part of his brain is screaming, fully aware of what’s happening, what he’s doing, what this means—but he’s too into it to care. He moves slowly at first and god, _god_ the way Cooper’s looking at him, rocking forward and fucking into Oliver’s hand as tiny half-sounds escape him.

“Oh, fuck,” Cooper's voice cracks. “Fuck, _Oliver.”_

Oliver sort of loses it at hearing his first name slipping between Cooper’s swollen lips, and he freezes, ignoring Cooper’s sound of protest. He grabs at Cooper’s waist, lifting and sweeping him under along the length of the sofa as he hikes one of Cooper’s legs up over his hip. Cooper stares at him, sweater still rucked up over his flushed chest, and Oliver leans forward, hand moving to tug the elastic down and wrap his fingers around Cooper. He watches that wide, shocked expression flutter, chest rising with a deep breath as his eyebrow knit, looking up at Oliver with big, round eyes. Cooper reaches up over his head, gripping at the arm of the sofa for leverage as his hips work to meet Oliver’s strokes.

“Just like that,” Oliver licks at his lips, hair falling in his face. “C’mon, that’s it. I got you.”

“I— _oh,”_ Cooper tenses, back arching. “Oh, god, don’t stop, _please.”_

Oliver sees it in a flash—what this would be like without clothes, what this would be like if Oliver let himself have this. All that sleepy haze breaks open, and Oliver’s hyper aware of the sound Cooper lets out, the look on his face, eyes rolling back, utterly obscene as he comes all over himself.

Oliver leans down, and there’s another kiss, more a need to be close than a good kiss, but Oliver likes it. He thinks he’d take the worst kiss in the history of the universe with Cooper over a perfect kiss with anyone else.

Cooper breathes heavy, leg sliding off of Oliver’s shoulder, and Oliver looks down at his hand. There’s a weird impulse to taste it, but all that wanton heat is being leached out of him by the cool air of the basement apartment, and those porn-esque thoughts are way, way less sexy than they were a minute ago. He wipes it down the side of Cooper’s joggers instead.

“Are you fucking serious?” Cooper tucks his chin against his chest, staring down at Oliver. “Dude, you _suck.”_

Oliver leans back. “Uh, is that any way to talk to the guy who just touched your dick?”

“When he ruins my favorite sweats, yeah! Yeah, it is!”

“Like I’m not sitting in a fucking swamp right now.”

Cooper’s nose wrinkles, and he kicks at Oliver’s thigh. “Go change then.”

“And miss the rest of the movie?” Oliver nods at the TV screen.

Cooper slides him another look, heavy, knowing. Oliver loves those looks. They make him want to do and say stupid shit, though, like ask if Cooper liked it. Ask if he wants to do it again. Ask if he wants more. Ask what they’re doing, what they are.

He settles on, “Plus, your stuff is like _way_ too short on me.”

“Fuck off.” Cooper laughs and flings a pillow at Oliver’s head. “We’re the same fucking height.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. If you’re like, blind.”

Cooper grins as he struggles to sit up, huge with all his teeth, hair messy, face pink, and Oliver’s stomach flips like they didn’t just spend the last half of the movie dry humping on the couch. Christ.

Oliver swings his legs around, wobbling up onto his feet. “Is any of your shit actually clean? I’m not wearing something that smells like -”

Joggers – that look exactly like Cooper’s so-called _favorite sweats_ \- fly at him so fast Oliver barely reacts in time to catch them, glaring over his shoulder as he shuffles into the bathroom.

He’s careful to avoid looking in the mirror, kicking off his ruined boxers and wiping down with a washcloth that soon joins it in the corner. He doesn’t want to see how pink his face still is, whatever marks are on his neck, how dumbstruck he looks, evidence of how Cooper has seeped under his skin. He presses his forehead against the closed door for a moment, holding his breath before opening it on a long exhale.

When he comes back out, he can see the living room is empty, but the light in Cooper’s room is on, the sound of drawers opening and shutting the only noise in the apartment cutting through the TV. Oliver calls out, “See, I told you they’d be too short—”

Oliver stops, eyebrows arching as he takes in the honest to god made bed and clutter-free floor. There are lines on the carpet, obvious marks from a vacuum, the barest hint of an acidic cleaner lingering in the air. Cooper’s not the biggest slob Oliver knows, not by a long shot, but he loves dropping wet towels on the floor and never picking them up. Loves eating in bed and leaving the wrappers on his nightstand. Loves letting every glass and mug he owns pile up on every spare inch of space not being taken up by old clothes, trash, exploding suitcases.

“Wow,” he lets out, and Cooper turns where he’s standing in front of his dresser in his boxer briefs. They’ve got little cartoon lobsters on them. “It’s like...actually clean in here.”

“It’s always clean,” Cooper flat out lies, popping open another drawer. “It’s just not always up to your ridiculous, anal standards—”

“Being able to actually see the floor is not a ridiculous, anal standard, Cooper.”

He can tell just from Cooper’s posture that he’s rolling his eyes, finally pulling a new pair of sweats out. “Do you ever get tired of trying to be _the most_ annoying person on the face of the planet?”

“Why?” Oliver runs his hand over the nightstand. No dust. No mystery residue. “Worried I’m coming after your title?”

That earns him a balled-up sock to the face, and when he whips it back Cooper flinches, but he’s grinning, big and beautiful. Oliver’s mouth stretches to match it, and the string of tension tethered between his ribs that likes to tighten with the fear that he’s ruined everything snaps, flood of relief taking its place, letting him breathe again. They’re still Cooper and Oliver, even if that gets buried underneath everything else. Even if they never kiss again.

“Seriously,” Oliver asks, “you got a girl coming over or something?”

It’s another item on the list of Things They Don’t Talk About, and while Oliver hasn’t been hooking up with anyone else for all these months, he can’t expect that Cooper hasn’t. Not when he looks like that, smiles like that, flirts like that. Not when he’s never had the guts to ask.

“No, you weirdo.” Cooper starts shoving all the upheaved clothes back into the top drawer. “If you—uh. Just, like...I thought...”

“Thought what?”

“Nothing, just—” Cooper pauses, and Oliver can see his face shift in the dresser’s mirror, eyes searching before he shakes his head. “Never mind. We ordering food? ‘Cause I’m starving.”

 _Never mind._ Oliver winces, watching Cooper slam the rest of the drawers shut.

“No, seriously,” Oliver pushes, leaning against the door frame. “What?”

Cooper’s mouth tightens as he stops short, trying to move around Oliver, but Oliver blocks him. “Really, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t believe you, like even slightly.”

A beat, then Cooper heaves out a loud, noisy breath, eyes rolling and arms slapping against his sides. “Like, in case you wanted to stay. I thought...I don’t know what I thought.”

Oliver never stays. Cooper never stays. Oliver thinks one time they fell asleep upstairs on the same bed watching late night reruns of _Boy Meets World_ or something, but when he woke up both beds were unmade and Cooper was in the shower. Oliver couldn’t remember if he’d dreamed it or not, because he dreams of Cooper a lot.

“Oh,” it comes out quieter than Oliver means it to.

“You don’t have to, obviously,” Cooper hurries to say. “Just like. I thought maybe.”

Oliver’s got wildfire thoughts burning through his head, blooming deep across his face, chest, the back of his neck. “Do you want me to?”

“Do _you_ want to?”

“I asked you first.”

“Yo, what are you?” Cooper makes a face at him. “Twelve?”

It feels like it. It feels like Oliver’s a kid again, standing in front of his first crush and sweating through his clothes, body too small to hold in all the impossibly huge things wailing through him. Except he’s 18 now, and it’s Cooper. Cooper, framed by his bedroom – _this_ bedroom, that they made together in this house - expression carefully neutral. Guarded, Oliver thinks, heartbeat thundering in his ears. For the first time he thinks, as freaked out over this as Olive ris, that maybe it’s just as hard for Cooper. Maybe stuff like this never gets easier, but when has Oliver ever been afraid of doing something that’s hard? He’s a fucking Otto —doing things the absolute hardest, most ridiculous and roundabout way is practically all he’s ever known.

“I—” his voice cracks. “I want to.”

He’s not expecting the way Cooper’s eyes light up, the way he sounds like he can’t believe it when he asks, “Really?”

“Yeah.” Oliver nods, heart in the back of his throat. He reaches out, tugging at the hem of Cooper’s sweater. “Yeah, really.”

When Cooper throws him onto the bed, Oliver falls backwards, but it feels like moving forward.


End file.
